


Mary

by NotHalfGothic



Category: Original Work
Genre: (unless inspiration hits), Angst, Eating Disorder, F/F, Horror, Mindfuck, Mystery, Obsessive Love, One Shot, Self Harm, Short, Twisted, and then, bad stuff always happens to lesbians, bang, both only implied but hey, crazy narrator, everything seems fine, you never know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-02
Updated: 2013-09-02
Packaged: 2017-12-25 10:21:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/951947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotHalfGothic/pseuds/NotHalfGothic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary's so pretty. I just wish she'd cheer up. [Probably don't read this if you're easily triggered.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mary

She's so very pretty, you know.

The first time I met her, I didn't see it, not really. I was in a rush, I was nervous and young and she was tall and spoke sternly, so it went straight over my head. It took a while before it hit me. I had to listen to her speech for a month or two before I realised how lovely her voice was – it was very Irish and not, by any stretch of the imagination, sweet; she spoke sternly, still, but could be softened sometimes, and when softened, her words were like velvet. When she spoke I could taste them like honey on my tongue, little shivers ran up and down my spine, my hands trembled, as if with cold.

I think I fell in love with her voice first.

It took a further week or two before I started to notice how pretty her long blonde hair was, and how much I wanted to touch it. She was pale, which I liked, and slim, which I did not – but nobody's perfect, I thought then, and she was lovely in so many other ways.

I was wrong, of course. She was, is and always will be perfect. I think it was another month before I realised that. Everything about her sort of... grew on me. Her anger, her far-from-brilliant eyesight, her slightly crooked smile, her untameable hair. She was like a goddess to me; when I spoke to her it felt like kneeling.

So you can imagine my surprise when she came home with me that day.

It was more than I think I'd ever dared to dream of – of course, I wanted her. I would always want her, but I knew I could never have someone so perfect... but I did. She drove the car while I sat in the passenger seat and I couldn't stop smiling, all the way to the house. Her body looked so soft and white where it trembled in the driver's seat and I couldn't stop myself from reaching out to brush my fingers across her arm; she shivered when I did, the first time I'd ever touched her, and there were a few happy tears in her eyes. She was so glad to be with me. I could hardly believe it.

We barely made it to the bedroom before we made love, her fingers grasping at me, fumbling in her desperation. I took charge, holding her hands still, and she gasped and cried out with delight under me. It was everything I'd ever wanted.

I'd always known she would be loud. I could just see it in her eyes.

Those same pretty eyes were still tearful with joy while I showed her how much I loved her, and though I made sure to be as careful with her as I could, I came out of it with scratches on my limbs and back, and a love bite on my wrist. It made me smile. When I thought about her I ran my fingers across it out of habit, even after it faded.

We were so happy together, her and I – until she became ill. Her voice stopped sounding so stern; it got soft, and quiet, but it was still lovely. I love it dearly – though I rarely seem to hear it now. It upsets me to think that.

The pale tone of her skin used to be nearly luminous in the darkness of our bedroom while she slept soundly and silently beside me, but it's taken on a tinge of grey with her sickness. She's lost some weight, as well. I think she eats less. I cook for her at every mealtime and bring her platefuls of her favourites – she stays in bed for the most part – but she often leaves them almost untouched. Her ribs show a little bit, and her hipbones. When we were first together there was fat at her stomach for me to kiss; no longer. Her pretty blonde hair is a bit less blonde now – though she is nearing forty, so that's only to be expected - but I know how important it is to her, so I always help her wash and brush it. She shivers when I touch her hair. She's always liked me to touch it.

None of it matters so much to me. She'll always be my perfect goddess; and I'm sure that when she's feeling better, it'll all go back to normal. Her appetite will come back, and she'll not be so tired; and when she is tired, she'll sleep better. Lately she lies awake a lot, with her pretty blue eyes half-open – she looks at me for a long time, and I smile at her and stroke her hair, like she likes. She always shivers when I do that. It's pretty. I know I just have to take good care of her, and help her get well again – and I can do that, because I love her.

I always make sure she knows how much I love her. She isn't so loud when we make love now – she keeps it to these soft little whimpering sounds, and she doesn't cry when she comes any more. I don't get so many scratches – her hands just lie gently against my shoulders or neck. She's so pretty under me. I make sure to tell her.

It's been a little while since she said it back. I'm sure it's just that sore throat she has – I bring her water and cough drops for it, but the sweets sometimes get a little bit stuck in her throat. I stroke her forehead while she splutters and now and again she gets so worked up, her hand finding mine and squeezing so hard she accidentally scratches me. I ignore it, just make sure to soothe her, and secretly get a little bit thrilled that her strength is coming back. She'll be well soon. I'm sure of it.

Still, every now and then I get a upset about it. I can't help it, I suppose I'm sensitive; it used to make her laugh. She used to shake silently with her amusement when I got upset over little things.

“What happened?” I'd asked one day, touching her cheek gently. She trembled a little bit with the cold and didn't say anything. “Don't you love me any more?” My voice was choked and hoarse with sadness and as I watched, a few tears began to spill down her face. I felt guilty instantly and I hid my face in her neck as I cried, feeling her sobs as she shook in my arms. “I'm sorry,” I said, over and over again. “I'm so sorry, love.”

There was a bruise on her cheek the next day. I wondered where it came from.

I wondered if maybe it was because I wasn't as pretty as I should have been, so I followed her lead and stopped eating. I still cooked for her; the food still got thrown away, but I still cooked. I lost a little weight and stood before her one day in some clothes that hadn't fit before. “What do you think?” I twirled happily in front of her. “I know I'm not as thin as you yet, but I'm trying.”

“You don't need to be thin,” she said quietly, and it made my heart ache as I went over to her and kissed her clammy forehead.

“You're sweet,” I sighed. “I'm going to be pretty for you, love, I promise.”

“That isn't what I want,” she tried, but I silenced her with a finger over her lips.

“I know, sweetheart,” I soothed. “Just think, you'll get better and I'll get slimmer, and everything will be so lovely.” I beamed down at her and she looked away, and I frowned. Clearly I wasn't beautiful enough yet – but there was time. I'd make her happy soon.

But I seemed to stop making her happy, and that destroyed me. I wanted to be pretty for her while she lay there in bed, gathering her strength, and I tried all sorts of things, but none of them worked. It hurt me to see her so uninterested in me, and I once again took to cutting my arms. I tried to keep it from her, knowing how upset she had been when she first found out, but a week or so later I found that she had done the same.

She looked up at me with wide, apologetic eyes and shaking hands while I wept silently and bandaged the large, deep cut on her forearm. “Why would you do that, love?” I asked repeatedly. “Why, when I love you?” Her face was wet with fresh tears all day.

“Never again,” she whispered shakily, as I gently pressed her head to my chest. I nodded.

“Good girl.” I cleaned up the blade for her and put it back in the bottom of my drawer.

She reopened the cut sometimes with her nails, and I started to get frustrated with her. I gave her a stern talking-to – something she used to be good at herself – and she learned her lesson. She blushed and cried. I hugged her tightly.

“I wish you'd get better,” I told her softly, kissing her cheek. She looked down. “Isn't there anything I can do?”

She blinked up at me with sad blue eyes, the chain attached to her wrist clinking metalically against the bed frame as she jerked her restraints. “Let me go,” she whispered.

I got awfully angry with her, and she doesn't talk any more. She's gotten even paler, but her lips are very, very red. She's prettier than ever, I think.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't really know that I'm happy with it, it was just a quick little write because I was bored. We can hope that somebody likes it, anyway.


End file.
